Sid opened the door to find two men in suits. They flashed badges. “Mr. Brooks?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Sergeant Flynn, LAPD. This is my partner, Detective Schmidt. May we come in?”
What was this? Sid thought. Some new kind of harassment? “Sure,” he said, opening the door. He showed them into the living room and pointed at a sofa. “Have a seat.”
The two men sat down, and the sergeant opened a notebook. Sid took a wingchair.
“Were you at a restaurant called Benny’s in Hollywood last night?”
“Yes. I had dinner with a friend.”
“What was your friend’s name?”
“Alan James.”
“Did the two of you leave together?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Was Mr. James drunk?”
“I don’t think that’s too strong a word to use.”
“What happened then?”
“Well, he was in no condition to drive, so I took him home, carried him bodily up the stairs, put him to bed, then came home.”
“What time did you leave him?”
“Couldn’t have been later than ten o’clock.” Sid began to feel uneasy; this wasn’t the kind of questioning he had expected. When would they get around to party membership?
“How would you describe Mr. James’s condition when you left him?”
“I think he had fallen asleep or passed out by the time I left.”
“Did you and Mr. James argue about anything last night, either at the restaurant or after you left?”
Sid shook his head. “Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we had a discussion, but not what I’d call an argument, nothing heated.”
“Were you close friends?”
“We’ve known each other for a good ten, eleven years starting in New York.” Then he caught the past tense of the policeman’s question. “Has something happened to Al James?”
“His housekeeper found him dead in his bathroom this morning. His throat had been cut with a straight razor.”
Sid sucked in a breath and held it for a moment. “He was on the bed when I left; I spread a blanket over him.”
“Did anyone see you leave Mr. James’s house last night?”
“I’ve no idea. I didn’t see anyone.”
“What kind of car do you drive?”
Sid was almost grateful for these questions, to keep talking. “A 1941 Buick convertible.”
“What color?”
“Kind of a medium green. It’s in the garage.”
“Was the top up or down last night?”
“Down; still is.”
“Good; that squares with what a witness told us; a neighbor, walking her dog.”
“I didn’t see her.”
“She saw you, and the coroner says Mr. James died around three A.M., so you’re not a suspect.”
“You think he was murdered?” This had not occurred to him.
“Looks like a suicide,” the sergeant said. “Do you know if Mr. James had any family in the Los Angeles area?”
“No, he didn’t. He had parents in New York. Their name is Jankowski. I think his father’s name is Myron. He had a brother, too, but I don’t remember his name.”
“Would you have a phone number for Mr. and Mrs. Jankowski?”
“No, but they live on the Lower East Side; I expect they’re in the phone book.”
“Do you know them at all?”
“I was introduced to them once at the opening of a play I wrote that Al appeared in. That was the only time I ever saw them: two minutes, maybe. The brother was there, too, but as I said, I can’t remember his name.”
“And there’s no one in L.A. we can contact?”
Sid shook his head. “Al was unmarried, and he told me last night that he and his girlfriend had broken up. His agent’s name is Max Wyler. I think he’s at the William Morris Agency. You should call him; he can contact Al’s family. He’ll know who Al’s lawyer is. Was.”
“Thank you, that’s a good idea. Do you have any idea why Mr. James would take his own life? Did he say anything last night that would have made you think he might do that?”
Sid stared at the coffee table. “He seemed depressed.” He looked up at the detective. “He had made a decision, and it’s possible he may have regretted it.”
The two detectives stood up, and Sid walked them to the door.
“How did you learn that we had dinner last night?” he asked.
“When you drove him home, Mr. James’s car remained parked in front of the restaurant. Someone there called him at home this morning to ask him to move it, because it was blocking their deliveries. A police officer answered the phone at Mr. James’s house.”
Sid nodded. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Brooks. Good morning.”
Sid watched them walk to their car, then he closed the door, leaned against it and began to cry.
20
Rick sat under a huge umbrella he shared with the camera and watched his actors slog through the scene. It had rained a lot since they had started shooting, but they were on schedule. It was going to be a wetter picture than he had planned, but the weather added character to their footage: the peaks of the Tetons obscured by cloud, an occasional flash of lightning behind the actors, their wet clothing, the mud.
“Cut. Print that,” he said.
“Cut. Print it!” the assistant director shouted for the benefit of those who could not hear Rick, who tended to speak softly.
“We’ll break for lunch. Next setup by two o’clock, please.”
The AD repeated his instructions.
Rick went over to Susan Stafford, their leading lady. “Susie, I think you’ve got this character exactly right, and it’s good to see that this early in our schedule.”
Susie glowed. “Thank you, Rick. I’ve worked hard on her.”
“Vance is a lucky actor.”
“Listen,” she said, “where did this guy come from? He seems to have been hatched as a working actor, and I’ve never heard of him, not in New York or L.A.”
“He’s English, and...”
“English?”
“Yes, and he toured in rep over there, then did a second lead in the West End and came to New York with the play, which ran for only a few weeks, then he came west.”
“I’m flabbergasted,” she said. “He’s so real I thought you’d found him around here somewhere.”
“I guess that’s what talent is. We’ve got him for a three-picture deal.”
“What are the other two?”
“Sid Brooks is working on adapting a novel for a romantic comedy, and I want to take a look at it. Beyond that, I don’t know, yet.”
“Whatever he does, I hope you’ll consider me; I love working with him.”
“Sure, I will.”
Manny White, the location director approached. “Rick, I’m told we’ll have phones before the day is out.”
“That’s a relief,” Rick said, though they had gotten along perfectly well with only the telegraph connection.
“Alice Brooks got a telegram from Sid this morning,” Manny said. “Alan James killed himself last night.”
Rick was stunned. “He was what, thirty-five?”
“About that.”
“Does anybody know why?”
“The telegram asked Alice to call Sid as soon as possible; maybe we’ll know more after she speaks to him.”
Rick got onto the bus with the others, and they were driven back to the ranch house. He went upstairs to change his clothes and boots, and found Glenna there, doing the same, while keeping up a running conversation with their little girls.